Prelude to Terror (44 page)

Lackner only said as they rounded the curve and started climbing, “Straight up.”

“This road looks simple enough. I’m giving you a lot of trouble.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Herr Fischer mentioned he had guests staying at the house—young couple.”

“Just one of them there, now.”

“Why? Something wrong?”

“No. We’ve got the girl with us.”

So they had been expecting trouble. Marck forced another small laugh. “You’re her chaperone?” That got no response. “Any servants in the house?” Lackner shook his head. “What do I do? Just wait around until the Berensons and Fischer get here? I tell you I’m hungry, could use a good meal.”

“You’ll find food in the kitchen.”

Carefully, Marck eyed his watch. Seven twenty-nine. He had timed it neatly. So had the Ferret and Turk: a green Volvo had just come into sight at the crest of the hill. He tried to draw Lackner’s attention to the dashboard. “Did you ever see such a collection of gadgets?”

Lackner said, “There’s a car up there. Standing.” And he didn’t like it. The heavy furrows on his brown face deepened, the bright blue eyes narrowed.

“Probably getting its bearings. These small roads are difficult for tourists. Not enough signposts. Where’s this house?”

“Turn right at that big birch.” Lackner pointed ahead to a silvered tree trunk, kept watching the car at the top of the hill.

Marck slowed down as he reached the birch and blinked his lights. Brief and gentle as that had been, Lackner had noticed. “No need to switch on, now. You’ve got a good half-hour before that,” he told Marck. “And don’t drive straight to the house. There’s a garage—a barn—among the trees on your left. What’s wrong?”

“Almost stalled, there. Just taking it a bit easy.” Easy for the Ferret and Turk to follow. Marck swung off the road to enter Fischer’s driveway and passed the barn.

“You missed it!” Lackner shouted, and swore.

“Didn’t see it in time. I’ll turn round at the house.”

“Herr Fischer doesn’t like his car standing out. Too much sap from the trees, gums it—”

“I’ll get it under cover.” Did this peasant think I was going to block Turk’s entry, while I struggled with a barn door? Here was the house itself, and a clearing of grass pretending to be a lawn. A car was parked well to one side—a black Thunderbird, he noted, as he swept the Audi round to face back towards the driveway, and came to a halt directly in front of the house entrance. What, no black Citroën? Naughty tricks these boys played, but not quite clever enough. As a signal to Turk, who must have slid downhill in neutral by this time, he let the Audi’s engine roar for a moment before he switched it off. It should fetch Grant, too; he’d probably recognise Fischer’s car and come hurrying out to welcome him. If he didn’t? Then, thought Marck, I send the farmer to get the front door open. And that’s where I want Grant, right on top of that mound, looking down at Berenson’s man. No way he could recognise me, not even at this short distance. Marck slipped his hand inside his jacket, and quietly unsnapped his holster. “Better get out,” he told Lackner. Else I’ll have to shoot through you. “Are you sure someone is inside?” he asked blandly. “The place looks empty.” Hurry, he told Lackner, hurry goddamn you.

“He’s here.” Lackner stepped out of the car, surveyed the house, nodded approvingly at the tightly closed shutters, just one—nearest the front door—left ajar. No fool after all, that American. Lackner reached back for his shotgun.

“You need that?” Marck asked with a grin. “I don’t see any rabbits around.”

“Two-legged rabbits. I’ll have a look at that green car on the hill.” Lackner raised his voice to shout, “Herr Grant!” There was no movement at the slightly opened shutter, no opening of a door. “He’ll be upstairs. Maybe at the back of the house. Better sound your horn.”

Marck hesitated. He thought he heard the Volvo beginning its gentle approach from the road. Turk might stop if the horn blasted off, take it as an alarm.

“Herr Grant!” Lackner was calling. “Herr Fischer sent his car ahead. He will be here soon.” Then irritably to Marck, “Get out! Let the man see you.” And I’ll know, thought Lackner, if this Werner is as good as his word. Too many smiles and grins for my taste, though his story seems true. If the American recognises him, he’s bad news. “What’s that?” he asked sharply as he heard a car coming quietly up the driveway.

Marck, noticing that forbidding frown on Lackner’s face, had already withdrawn his hand from his revolver and stepped out of the Audi. “Someone has lost his way.”

Lackner was staring at the green car that had come into sight. It pulled up as it reached the open stretch of grass. “The devil take him. What in—”

“Better set them straight.” Marck’s eyes were on the window near the front door: a slight movement, there, pushing the barely opened shutters further apart. Have a good look, he told Grant. He raised his voice, thickening his German—Grant couldn’t recognise the accent, either—and said jovially, “I’ll wait here. Just point them in the right direction for the village.”

“I’ll do that,” Lackner said grimly, and strode off.

Marck thumbed his cap on to the back of his head, showing a quiff of black hair, while his right hand reached gently for his revolver. Only his head could be seen from the house: from the shoulders down, the Audi blotted out any clear view of him. Firm in his grip, the pistol was lowered close to his thigh. Unconcerned and slightly bored, he sauntered a few paces towards the front of the car, halting half-way, the lower part of his body sheltered by the hood. Casually, his left hand extracted a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket. He seemed to be admiring the fretted design of the front balcony as he flicked his lighter and inhaled deeply. Nothing suspicious here, Grant—see? But his right hand, down by his side, was ready to come up as he’d drop to a crouch behind the hood. Soon now... From the side of the clearing where the Volvo stood, he could hear a mumble of voices: the Ferret was keeping it low-keyed, polite. A sudden scuffle; complete silence. The farmer didn’t even have time to let out the beginning of a yell. Marck repressed a smile, kept his eyes on the house. Grant could have heard nothing, couldn’t have any view of the Volvo either, not until he stepped out. Come on, come on, Marck urged him, as a heavy bolt was loosened and the door swung partly open. Incongruously, a telephone began to ring. Bloody hell, don’t answer, don’t go back to pick it up; come out. Grant, come well out!

A shot sounded. From the trees behind him. Instinctively he wheeled round, saw the girl, and fired. And swung back to face the door and fire again. He was a fraction too late. His bullet struck the balcony as Grant’s shotgun caught him full blast in the chest. The noise reverberated over the hillside and the telephone stopped ringing.

“Avril!” Grant was shouting, dropping his gun, racing down over the mound. “Avril!” She was lying quite still. Two of the Lackner boys now reached her.

For a split second, Peter looked down at her, then at Grant racing past the silver Audi, then at the strange green car where a man was prone on the ground, his rifle sighting carefully. “Look out!” Peter yelled as the rifle cracked, its sharp sound overlaid by a heavy burst from Ernst’s shotgun.

“Got him,” Young Ernst said quietly. He had spoiled the man’s aim too: the American’s jacket might have been grazed across the back of his shoulders, nothing more than that. He was still on his feet. But he had halted his wild run as he turned to stare at the Volvo.

In that brief moment, the second rifle was fired. Its bullet caught Grant on his left side, sent him staggering.

The Ferret didn’t risk another shot. He crouched low behind the protection of the car as two shotguns blasted its windshield. He began running, dropping the rifle to add to his speed, cursing as blood dripped from his cheek and hand where fragments of splintered glass had cut deep.

Peter reached Grant who had struggled back on his feet again. “Bad?” Peter asked.

Grant shook his head. Holding his side, he moved slowly towards Avril.

He’s the lucky one, thought Peter, and followed his brother towards the Volvo. Father, he was thinking now, what happened to my father? They found him stretched out on his face. But he was alive and groaning. “Hit on the back of the head,” Young Ernst said as they turned him over. “He’ll be harvesting on Monday.”

“If it isn’t raining,” Peter added, and they stood there grinning with relief. They raised him to his feet. Lackner tried to speak, grimaced at the stab of pain at the back of his skull.

“Take it easy, take it easy,” Young Ernst said.

“Two men—”

“We shot one of them. The other took to the hills. When night comes, he’ll be helpless up here. We’ll find him.”

“Get help—police at Mariazell,” Lackner told Peter.

“And the doctor. The American was hit. Left side, not too bad. He made a difficult target—ran fast, jerked to a halt. That sharpshooter must have been cussing mad. We made sure he didn’t get a second shot.” Yes, we did some good tonight, thought Peter as he raced towards the house and the telephone.

“I can walk,” Lackner told Young Ernst, but he didn’t shrug off his son’s strong arm around him. As they made their way slowly across the grass, he saw Grant kneeling beside the girl. Ernst Lackner halted, stood still. “What was she doing here?”

“She came running up with us chasing after her. She fired a warning shot. For Grant. For you.” That was all it had been: a warning. “That bastard Werner caught her with his first bullet.” And Young Ernst felt his father’s weight heavier on his arm. Hans and Willi were now coming out of the wood, stopping abruptly to stare down at the girl. They spoke to the American. He neither heard nor saw them.

“Get her indoors,” Lackner said. “Grant, too. Soon, the whole village will be here.”

“What about these?” Young Ernst jerked his head towards the two dead men.

“Leave them as they lie,” Lackner said, his voice suddenly harsh. It was beginning to rain, the first drops falling softly, darkened sky above promising a torrential downpour. He didn’t even notice.

The rest of the night was a blur of memories. Too many faces, some known, other strange, around him. Shock, they said, when he had suddenly collapsed once the old doctor had cleaned his wound and bound his side. Too many voices, too many faces, and Avril not among them. After he became conscious again, one short hour later, perhaps even less, they told him she had gone. The tall fair-haired American from the Embassy had arrived and taken her away. At once. Before the heavy rains started, blocking the roads, they said. Nothing they could do for her here, so the American had put her in the ambulance that had followed the policemen from Mariazell and driven off. Where? They did not know. Perhaps to Mariazell. Perhaps to Vienna. She was still alive? God willing, they said, evading an answer, and moved back into the shadows.

Against his will, he had fallen asleep. The old doctor had seen to that. When he awoke, it was morning with thick dark clouds blotting out the hills. He struggled to rise, found he was weaker than he thought, lay back on Fischer’s giant bed and listened to the battering of rain against windows. It was six o’clock. We should have been starting out on our journey, he thought. In that rain and wind? No, he told himself, we’ll never start on any journeys—not today, not tomorrow, not ever. He did not need to ask about Avril. He knew. He knew she was dead.

* * *

Two days of violent storm. Two days of fever. And then they said he was normal again. Normal? In some ways, yes. He got out of bed, tried walking around Fischer’s room, went gladly back to bed. But they were giving him messages, now, as well as Frau Lackner’s soups and jellies. She had had her share in nursing men who had been wounded in hunting accidents, or whose leg had been hacked by a slipping axe. Blood transfusions? Nonsense, she said: the right food and rest, and a healthy man repairs himself.

The first message was from Fischer. He was on his way as soon as the storm abated and made road travel possible.

The second message was from Prescott Taylor. Avril’s brother had flown out from London and was taking her home.

* * *

“How long before I leave?” Grant asked on the day the rains ended.

The old doctor, six feet, spare and strong, eighty-three years old, white hair above firm suntanned cheeks, noted the impatience in the young man’s eyes and remembered Frau Lackner’s words. Too many memories for him here, Frau Lackner had said: that’s why he stays inside Herr Fischer’s room, doesn’t even try walking outside. “It won’t be comfortable travelling. To New York?”

“To Washington.”

“Another ten days,” the doctor suggested.

“Five days,” said Grant.

“Make it a week.”

“Five days. I’m fit enough now.”

Not as fit as he thinks. But never argue with a man whose mind is made up. Besides, he is in good physical condition, recovery should be quick. Emotionally? Much improved. “Five days,” the doctor agreed, “provided you start walking and sitting outside. The minute your wound starts hurting, find a seat in the sun. Don’t step over the threshold of pain.”

What about a different kind of pain? Grant looked long at the light blue eyes that were studying him intently. I’d get the same advice for that, he thought. And the old man could be right: don’t wallow in suffering. “I won’t,” Grant said.

“I’ll come up to see you tomorrow and the next day. The day after that, I expect you down at my consulting room.”

“I’ll be there.”

* * *

Now he could make arrangements for travel. He telephoned the Embassy in Vienna.

“Sure you’re fit enough?” Prescott Taylor asked.

“Sure.”

“You could stay as long as you like at Grünau—Fischer would like you to be his guest.”

“I know. We talked about that when he was up here yesterday. So we compromised. He’s coming back this week-end and will drive me to the Salzburg airport on Sunday.”

Taylor laughed. “Do you always get your own way when you compromise? Okay, Sunday—leaving Salzburg. For Zürich and New York?”

“For Zürich, Paris, and Washington.”